The Newsie Files
by conversophile
Summary: We are the Newsies. This why we are the way we are. How about you?
1. Jack

I had a brother. Bet you didn't know that. His name was Andrew. His hair was curly and dirty blonde, and his eyes were the same shade of chocolate brown as mine. Everyone said he could have been my son, we looked so alike. The boys called him Sidekick. You know, like Cowboy and his Sidekick. I loved him more then life itself.  
  
Notice how I use past tenses? Yeah. There's a reason for that.  
  
Andrew died. He was 7 years old. I killed him.  
  
I wanted to be a Newsie leader, just like Spot Conolon and Hooks Monroe. And I told them as much. That I was going to be the leader of the Manhattan boys. Spot laughed it off, but not Hooks. He said he'd help me. For a price.  
  
When Hooks said price, I thought he wanted me to pay him. But no. He wanted something to show him I was serious about wanting to be a leader.  
  
He said if I hurt my brother, he'd help me.  
  
I slugged him and walked away. At first.  
  
Andrew and I were racing across the street 2 weeks later. I had almost forgotten about the dare. Almost. I remembered when Andrew fell in the middle of the rode and started to cry. He couldn't get up-his foot was stuck in a crack in the pavement or something. I was on the curb already, about to turn around and go help him, until I saw one of Hooks boys watching. I had heard from Spot that Hooks was willing to forgive my knocking him down if I went through with the dare. And I wanted to be a leader, wanted it real bad, wanted it enough to ignore my brother's desperate cries for help.  
  
So I did. I pretended I couldn't hear him and kept walking.  
  
I don't remember things in pictures. I remember things in sounds. I remember the sounds of the fishmonger shouting his wares as my brother cried for help. I remember hearing his terrified scream mix with that of the out of control carriage horse. I remember the sound my boots made on the pavement as I spun around and started to run for him, the sound of the strangled cry in my throat as I saw it was too late.  
  
I remember the crunch as the carriage wheels drove over my baby brother's chest.  
  
When people ask me why I changed my name, I tell them it was to help me survive after I escaped from the refuge. Not true. Jack Kelly is a decent fellow, with a good heart and high hopes for the future. Francis Sullivan killed his brother. He has no hopes, no dreams, just guilt and sorrow. I dunno, who would you rather be?  
  
Francis Sullivan did have dreams once, though. They were dreams passed on to Jack Kelly, dreams of getting out of the city and going to some place far, far away. Someplace he'd only seen on a train as a little boy. A dream Jack Kelly can achieve now that he's a leader, a dream Francis Sullivan doesn't want any more. Because it was Andrew who really wanted that ranch, not him. And Andrews dead.  
  
The day my brother died, my dreams came true. I'd have the money for that ranch in a little over 5 years, I was a leader, my cheating father got so drunk off his ass when he heard the news, he killed my bitch of a mother and was hauled off to prison, and I even got to see the last half of a show at Irving Hall, a treat I had missed for weeks.  
  
All my dreams came true. At the price of a life. The life of my brother.  
  
Nothing should be worth that.  
  
My name is Francis Sullivan. They call me Jack Kelly. Cowboy. This is why I am the way I am.  
  
How about you? 


	2. Snitch

*claps* Yay! You like! Yay! Much bon-bons to reviewers.  
  
PsYcHoJo-Yes way. Fun, no?  
  
Spatz-Original? Really? *is ecstatic* I wrote something original!! Danke!!  
  
Chicago-Merci. I'm going to edit  
  
klover-wait until you see Crutchys. *evil grin*  
  
CiCi-I never thought of doing Spot (*ducks*), but I think I will. Thanks for the idea!  
  
sugarNspice-Really? Cool.  
  
kellyanne-Oo, thanks, hope your jaws alright.  
  
A slightly happier file. Enjoy. ~*~*~*~*~  
  
SNITCH  
  
He called me Snitch. That's what I remembered the most about my daddy. He called me Snitch. I don't even remember what my proper name is any more. 'Cause my Daddy called me Snitch. And I liked it that way. Whenever he said my real name, it was all sad and regretful (sad that Mama named me after her daddy, regretful that she died having me). But Snitch was a happy name, a name that made him smile. I liked seeing my Daddy smile.  
  
When I was little, I liked shiny things. Coins, paper clips, spoons, my Daddy's gold cuff links, shards of glass-anything that caught the light and sparkled with what seemed to me to be tangible delight. And whenever I saw them around our apartment, I would take them. It wasn't that I needed them; I just.had to have them. I wouldn't be able to concentrate, there would be a sort of ache in my stomach, and my hands seemed to twinge until they were wrapped safely around the object and I was putting it in the big glass jam jar I kept under my bed. I would leave the jar alone until night fell, then I would pull the jar out and hold it up to the oil lamp by my bed, marveling at the brilliance of all my tiny treasures.  
  
One night, my Daddy caught me. He pulled the jar from my hands, starring in wonder at the enormous amount of stolen items. His eyes grew even wider when he spotted the pocket watch I had sworn I hadn't seen less then a day before.  
  
I felt my eyes fill with tears. I knew he was going to hurt me. My daddy had never hurt me before, but he had come close. And at age three, the idea of my daddy, a mountain of a man with huge hands and wide shoulders, striking me was more then terrifying. I stiffened, waiting for the harsh words to come, followed by a slap.  
  
But they didn't come. Instead, he laughed. My daddy just stood there and laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed. He pulled me into his arms, swinging me around, and I started to laugh with him.  
  
"Why you little snitch!" he cried, "No, correction-MY little Snitch!"  
  
From then on, we were inseparable. And people always commented on how happy we looked, and whenever they said that, I had to smile. Because I knew it was true. We were happy. We had each other, and that was all that mattered.  
  
Then the men started coming. I didn't notice at first, but after awhile, I noticed every night when they came. The clock above the stove would chime midnight. Directly before or directly after, the front door would open, open wide, and I would hear 4 sets of footsteps come into the house. They would talk to my Daddy in hushed angry voices that scared me to no end. I would pick up the occasional word: launder, money, blackmail, or else. Horrid words, horrid words that went on and on for exactly two hours. Then the 4 sets of feet would stand, and silently leave. After they left, I would pretend to be asleep as my Daddy would slide into my room and just stand there, watching me. Once, I cracked my eyes open a sliver and was shocked to see the tears streaming down his face as he watched me. He would just stand there, watch me and cry for about 10 minuets, tell me he was sorry, kiss my forehead and leave. This routine went on for a good 3 months.  
  
Then one night, the voices got louder. They weren't quiet angry voices any more, they were loud angry voices that yelled and screamed and fought with my daddy for what seemed like an eternity.  
  
My Daddy taught me a lot. He taught me never to quit sucking my thumb- it would get me out of trouble. He said if my hand was otherwise occupied, I was less likely to try to steal the neighbor's kitten or that silver service bell on the grocers counter.  
  
He taught me never to try to grow up to fast, since I would never get another chance to be a kid. If I wanted to stay 8 for the rest of my life, he said, that was perfectly fine.  
  
He taught me never to snitch unless I needed it, and to never get caught. He taught me never to lie, never to judge people before I got to know them a little, never to add to the problems of the world. And he taught me NEVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES to socialize with 'the wrong type of people'.  
  
My daddy taught me all this from a bar-stool in a pub a few blocks from our house, the night after the long visit from the men. As he taught me, I tasted my first beer. After he was finished teaching, he stood up, telling me he'd forgotten his wallet at the house and I should wait here until he came back. He kissed my forehead and walked out into the street.  
  
I sat on that bar-stool for 3 days. My Daddy never came back.  
  
At the Refuge (where I was placed for underage drinking and abandonment), I learned even more. I learned that boys weren't supposed to cry. But I did, and got soaked. I learned that boys weren't supposed to suck their thumbs. But I did, and got soaked. I learned that boys weren't supposed to steal things from other boys. But I did, and got soaked. I learned that boys weren't supposed to wait for a daddy who wasn't ever coming back. But I did, and got soaked.  
  
But still, I didn't change. My daddy taught me to be a good kid, and I wasn't going to change. I didn't judge the boys. I gave them back the things I took, admitting to stealing them every time. I tried explaining about the thumb-sucking, but it was a lost cause. And eventually, the beatings stopped. I was glad. My daddy wouldn't have liked seeing me hurt.  
  
It's been another 8 years since he left me. And I keep wondering if he'll ever come back. And if he does, whether I'll want to go back to that life, a life with him. I have a new family now, the newsies, and I'm not sure I'd want to replace 40 brothers with one father I'm not sure I even know any more. But maybe, maybe I would.because I know I belong to him; we're blood, kin, family.  
  
But, like Itey tells me when I'm blue, the newsies are family too; a bigger and maybe even better one. And they'll always be around. And they'll never leave me. Like he did.  
  
I hope I never have to make that choice.  
  
My name is William Jourdet. They call me Snitch. This is why I am the way I am.  
  
How about you?  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
I liked the way this turned out. I don't know why. I just do.  
  
Wipe your feet on the mat before you leave, and don't forget to review 


	3. Kid Blink

My past isn't that interesting, now that I think about it. Painful, yes. Bloody, yes. Indescribably horrid, hell yes. So what? You can hear the same from almost every guy here.  
  
It starts out with your basic painful bullshit. Momma died having me, Daddy got pissed because he couldn't beat her anymore, so he decided he would just beat up on himself. It took him about 3 years to figure out that wasn't exactly the bee's knees. So, by then I was old enough to truly annoy him and he started kick my ass around.  
  
Okay, kick is the wrong word.Since he never technically 'beat' me. Beat as in 'beat up'. So, in a technical sense, he never 'kicked my ass'. Sliced, possibly. Never kicked.  
  
Dad had this fixation with knives. He was a chef once, before they kicked him out for drinking all the expensive wine and cooking alcohol. So when he started drinking and drinking, and decided it would be a brilliant plan to abuse my mother, then himself, then me, the perfect weapon of choice had to be a kitchen knife.  
  
He would slice my skin open and lock me in my room to watch myself bleed.  
  
I mean, so what? Lots of kids' parents beat them. It ain't a crime, and most of the times you learned to live with it.  
  
I'm worse, though. I learned to like it. Even when I ran away, became a Newsie, I still liked it. Too much, maybe.  
  
Maybe it's the thrill of getting caught. Maybe it's the thrill of knowing I could really, seriously injure myself. Maybe it's the thrill of waiting for someone to notice the scars, start asking questions, and try to force me to stop.  
  
I don't know, and don't particularly care one way or another. All I know is it's like a drug, a daily fix I need to deal with stress. The sharp, smooth steal slicing my skin, leaving nothing but a trail of blood and a thin, white scar in its wake-it feels so good, it's intoxicating.  
  
But you know what they say; "It's all fun and games until someone looses an eye."  
  
How ironic. That's exactly what happened to me.  
  
I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, admiring my handiwork-a fine cut running the length of my eyebrow. It was a bit jagged to be sure, and a little deeper then I intended, but still, a beauty of a cut. And I hadn't been using the mirror when I had done it.But now.  
  
I licked my finger, tasting the coppery and ever present taste of blood. Using a mixture of both clear and red body fluids, I smoothed back my left eyebrow, the one still untouched. Slowly, carefully, deliberately, I raised the knife.  
  
I missed.  
  
I don't remember much after that. I remember screaming, pounding footsteps, boys yelling, a towel thrust on my eye, a carriage ride, lots of clean men in white coats, and a raucous, roaring pain.  
  
I loved it.  
  
I don't remember much of what the doctors said or what when on when they got me into the examining room-I'm pretty sure I had fainted by then. All I truly remember is waking quite sometime later with no depth perception and a throbbing ache in my head.  
  
The fact I couldn't see worth a blood-nickel didn't bother me too much at first. I was so doped up on morphine, I think I probably could have been missing my head and wouldn't have really noticed. No, what got my attention was the pain ricocheting around my skull. It was a constant throb, never letting down for a second and burning slowly through my entire head and neck.  
  
Pain wasn't supposed to be like this. Pain was slight, sharp and then seductively smooth as velvet, dripping with thin lines of blood, slow, cool and sweet. Not hot, burning inferno inside your head, not-well, painful.  
  
"Kid?" A soft voice whispered. Even as doped up as I was, I did recognize that voice. I couldn't move to well, so I spoke to the ceiling in reply.  
  
"Mush?"  
  
"Yeah, it's me. I've been here all day. Are you alright?"  
  
The blurry face of my selling partner appeared over me. I blinked my one good eye, slightly shocked. His curly hair was unruly, and dark circles under his eyes made him look like some sort of mulatto raccoon. A 5-o'clock shadow ran across his face.  
  
"Whoa. You look a mess."  
  
He chuckled, "You're alright. Kid's always been one to speak whatever's on his mind, hadn't he?"  
  
I grinned back, "I guess." My grin faltered slightly, "Mush.Can I ask you something?"  
  
"You can ask. T'aint mean you'll get told."  
  
I took a deep breath, my focus moving all around before focusing on him again, "W-wot 'appened t' me?"  
  
"Wewll." He sighed too, his focusing roving all over, obviously trying to find words. I became slightly agitated. Something was wrong. What? And why couldn't I see? What was going on?  
  
What happened next was a blur-a rush of words and tears and pain. Mush explained, as quietly and slowly as he could, that Tumbler had found me, and that apparently I'd had an accident while shaving. I refused to believe him at first-my blades wouldn't hurt me, they inflicted pleasure and never pain. But then, he took the patch off my eye and raised me up so I could look in the mirror across the room, at the lidless red and white thing that had once been my eye. I screamed. Then cried. Then blabbered endlessly about my father, my knives, what he would do to me, what I would do to myself.  
  
Mush didn't speak. He just listened. When I had finished, he still didn't speak, letting me cry myself out. After a few minuets, I could feel strong fingers wrap around my hand, squeezing it gently, "Whenever you feel like doing this to yourself again, just come find me, alright?" He chuckled, "Kid Blink?" I could drown in his eyes and smile. All I could do was nod.  
  
And until today, I have kept that promise for a full 12 months. 1 year-the hardest, most painful, most wonderful year of my life. Old habits die hard- but Mush helped. A lot. He made sure he was always there, never letting me by myself for a moment. He even went to the pains of sleeping in the bunk above me-waiting until I fell asleep before he allowed himself to do the same, and waking up at the crack of dawn, just so he could be the one to awaken me. I loved him for always having a free shoulder for me to cry on; I hated him for being so damn understanding and caring. In either case, he helped more then anything anyone can say. And soon.I really began to appreciate him for it. A smile from Mush, a touch on the shoulder or an arm casually slung around my neck became the daily fix I needed, not the feel of the cool razor against my skin.  
  
But now.As I look at the knife sitting on the counter, I wonder.  
  
It's been so long. I'm over that kind of crap now. How much damage can one little cut do?  
  
A lot. I ought to know that by now.  
  
My name is Luis Ballet. This is why I am the way I am. How about you?  
  
~!~!~!~  
  
Weird chapter, because I just mashed two stories together. Errk. Sorry if it ended up kinda screwy.Ah well. I like it.  
  
To my reviewers-I can't remember who reviewed the last chapter and I'm too lazy to check. Ah well. I love you all till death(or writers block) do us part, and thanks veerrry much.  
  
Just where in hell are the flamers? I haven't gotten a decent flame yet, its rather annoying.Meh. Ah well. 


	4. Itey

I can hear Snitches voice calling my name. I can feel him hands shaking my shoulders, his lips brushing my forehead, his tears wetting my cheeks as he tries to wake me up. But it doesn't work. It never works.  
  
He tries so hard to wake me. Relive me from the pain the wracks my body, and from the humiliation that will follow if I wake everyone up with my hysterical sobs that follow a usual set of these repetitive nightmares. But, he never does completely wake me up. Its like the nightmares are a reel of film-I have to watch the entire thing before I can get up and leave.  
  
~!~!~  
  
The yelling and cursing tears through the paper thin walls of the closet like a knife blade and I struggle against my sisters firm grasp, wanting to push through the walls and make the noise stop. But Nydia holds me tightly, not letting me venture out of our safe hiding place to try and stop the horrid battle going on between our Mama and Zio Luis.  
  
I hate these fights. They last forever-ugly words and palpable hate burning through our loudest prayers and songs and stories. I hate it more when Nydia stops rocking me, places me and our 'picnic'(a dusty bottle of wine and an old loaf of bread) under a coat and leaves the safety of our hiding spot to try and stop them. Just like she's doing now.  
  
When Nydia's not here, I'm cold, tired, scared beyond belief. She told me to pray, or pretend we're in the park for out 'picnic' and when she gets back, she'll have a nice big basket of raspberries for us to eat and we'll be as happy as can be-as we used to be, before Papa died, before Zio Luis came and the fights started. But I can't concentrate on pretend or prayers when her voice joins the battle of words and now fists carrying on outside.  
  
I was scared when she left the closet. I'm very scared when I hear her join in the yelling, her voice gaining pitch and intensity, then cresendoing into an awesome scream of pain, identical to the one no doubt coming from Mamas throat. And I'm absolutely petrified when their screams slowly fade away, but the sound of flesh pounding flesh continues.  
  
Nydia forgot to lock the closet when she left me, so my Zio Luis has no problem wrenching it open and depositing two forms on the floor. He doesn't see me as I peak over the top of my wool cave at him, and feel a knot of deep seated fear tie in my stomach. He has the look of a man gone insane with anger and spite. He is covered in blood, most of it not his own, and he clutches a pair of bloody scissors as he screams at the two lumps on the floor. He says horrible, untrue things about my Mama and how my sister was no better, he was glad they are dead and with half the chance he'd do it all again. With that, the door slammed shut, rattling on its hinges as the key was turned forcefully in the lock.  
  
It's hard to move, now that the small space is occupied by two more bodies.Dead bodies. The dead bodies of the only family I've ever known.  
  
Only.no! They can't be dead! They look so.so peaceful...Almost. Their clothing is torn and through the rips you can see magnificent bruises blooming across their smooth olive skin. Blood oozes from multiple cuts and gouges, spreading and caking around the material of their dresses, in their hair, on their skin.  
  
But they can't be dead. They can't. I call their names, with growing urgency as I tickle Mamas chin and pull on Nydia's braid, things that drive them crazy.And they don't respond. Not even in the slightest. I know their gone now.Gone forever.  
  
The scent of blood stings my nose and mouth. My ears are ringing and I can't see through my tears. I crawl back to my corner and pull the coat up to my chin. I eat the bread. I drink the wine. And I watch nature take its toll on those I loved most in the world. ~!~!~!~  
  
I was in that closet for a solid week before the bulls dug me out and shoved me in the refuge. I met Snitch there, and my life restarted itself, but for a solid 4 years, those dreams were the center of my universe. Whenever I closed my eyes, the monstrous visions would slowly creep into my minds eye and force me awake. Whenever I tried to consume food, all I would taste would be that blood tainted bread and wine. Whenever I tried to sell a headline that involved blood in any way, shape or form, I would start to sell the story of what happened to my family. And whenever I saw a man who even vaguely resembled my uncle give me an odd look, well, you've never seen anyone run so fast.  
  
I would still be like that if it wasn't for Snitch. He helped me a lot, more then I can say in words alone. I met him at the refuge that first night. The story goes that he snuck out of bed and came over to mine to steal however much of my stuff he thought was worth it, and then noticed how badly I was crying and shaking, even though I wasn't awake. I don't know if that's true or not-all I know is that I woke up to a pair of terrified gray eyes and a pair of warm, understanding arms that enfolded me in a comforting hug. We worked out a deal then-I would watch his back during the day, if he would keep an eye out for me at night. And so far, it so far, it's worked.  
  
The nightmares are almost gone now, and I haven't had one in over 2 months. And even though I've told Snitch this a million and a half times over, he still insists we share a bunk-can never be too sure. I think he likes having someone to baby, since we all baby him so often. And I really don't mind. When he's curled up by me, almost around me, I feel safe, like as long as he's there, I'll have someone who will hold me close and love me and not rip me apart at the first sign of weakness. And in our world, a friend like that isn't someone you come across every day. So in a weird way, I'm actually pretty lucky.  
  
My name is Michael Lucci. This is why I am the way I am. How about you? 


	5. Dutchy

A/N: Looooong-ass chapter ahead. It's taken me exactly 3 months to write, sort of because I stopped and started and rewrote at least a million and a half times. But I like this chapter, so it was worth it  
  
~!~!~!~!~  
  
I'm different from the others and anyone who thinks different is just plain stupid. I mean, come on. Please. How many of the other boys are taller then Jack, AND skinnier then Skittery? How many other boys have hair so blonde, it ain't blonde, it's fucking yellow? How many of the other boys can speak 4 languages as opposed to your basic English and Bad English [1] (I can speak Dutch and BAD Dutch! Lala!)? How many of the other boys wear both specs (and Specs, rawr)? And therefore, are not tragic closet cases?  
  
How many of the other guys are still in full contact with their families?  
  
Yessirebob, I still talk to my family. ALL members of my family. I don't visit their graves, cry when their names are mentioned, or turn all icky pasty-pale whenever I see them on the street. I talk to them, laugh with them, try to out prank my sisters, and help my mother, aunts and grandmother keep the boarding house they run from collapsing. I love all of them, and they all love me. I think.  
  
So. The unavoidable question has arisen. If I have this lovely group of blood-relations who live on the far side of the island, why am I living at the Lodging House? Well, there are 2 reasons for that really-firstly, we seriously needed the cash, and secondly, do me a favor and look at the family members I list in the paragraph above.  
  
Sisters. Mother. Aunts. Grandmother. No fathers, uncles, grandfathers, male cousins, sisters husbands, none whatsoever. Yeah. All 12 members of my family are female. And trust me, if you grow up with 4 older and 4 younger sisters, two doting ditzy aunts, one hard-ass grandmother and a mother who runs a boarding house for single/widowed female factory workers with a strict NO MEN ON THE PREMISIS WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION rule.By the time you turn 12-whether you be gay or no-wham, bam, thank-you-ma'am, you are GONE. Not permanently, of course. Take head, my friends, one thing you do not want is 12 very formidable, very improbable, VERY DUTCH women very pissed off at you for not coming home at least once week. This is why you can find me, almost every weekend (not to mention the days surrounding all major holidays and celebrations), being slave to their every wish and whim.  
  
My family operates on a very strong 'Why beat around the bush when we can just cut the damn thing down and see more clearly?' basis. Zero bullshit or less is tolerated. Which is why I freely admit my girls have me wrapped around their collective little finger. My mother only need snap her fingers and I'm there, tripping over myself to help her out. I have gotten into fights with my sisters over who loved our Aunties/grandmother the most. And my sisters are a force to be reckoned with in their own right.  
  
Its all in the way they look at you, you know? Marjan, the eldest-with one look she has you spilling the deepest darkest secrets of your soul. Irene gives you more of a 'touch anything I care about and suffer, schijt schare ' glare, and it's pretty damn effective. Then there is Gyselle, who doesn't even have to look at you to make you want to give her your heart, body, soul, and the last penny you'll ever make. Helga, she has sort of that same quality, only when you look at her, you just know how smart she is, how much she's going to achieve. The twins-Luva and Yvette-don't give looks to anyone but each other-but its like 'the most important things are the things people don't say', you know? When both their faces are plastered with mischievous grins after one of them has just given the other 'the look', you know you are going to pay in ego for the next trillion years. After you receive the results of those grins, you go to Marta-one smile from her and you know you're worth a million dollars again. And lastly, of course, is Kitty. I can resist anyone else's pouting except hers-if she even looks like she is considering giving me the sad puppy face, I will break down and do anything she wishes me to do(this has led to me wearing a dress and pearls to a neighborhood social, the pinching of too many pieces of penny candy to count, and court order banning me from every Shoe-Shine stall from here to Newark.)  
  
Yep, my girls. They taught me everything I need to know. Sure, the Newsies have taught me important things to-honor, valor, how to drink 14 shots in a row and not spew-but the really important things I learned from my family. I can sew, hem, and patch any garment. I can knit scarves and hats-Oma says I'm almost ready to learn how to make sweaters. I can clean almost anything- silverware to stains. I can cook something that is actually eatable-and I know where/how to get the best deals on all the ingredients I'll need. I can quiet-not to mention control-small children, and how to take care of them(or anyone else for that matter) when they're sick or broken in someway(broken limbs, broken hearts, vhatever.). Not to mention I'm probably one of the few members of the male species on the planet who is blessed with feminine intuition. I don't listen to it much, but its there, trust me. I can usually tell what people are feeling, why their feeling that way, and when to shut up. My mother likes to tease me about this, patting my shoulder and saying, 'Ahck, beminde, you are going to make some man so happy some day!'. I wonder if she knows how right she is.Probably. She's my mother. She knows everything.  
  
Having been brought up in a household made up strictly of female personages has one other advantage-cookie to anyone who can guess what it is. I'll give you some hints. I live with a bunch of boys. A bunch of mostly hetro boys. Who don't get laid much. That's right folks. When story time comes around, I am the master teller of tales-not to mention I can auto-correct some of the fabulous tales Kid Blink or Pie Eater come up with(honest to Godly, where they hear such things is beyond me.)  
  
But this does lead to the occasional problem. Newsies hear about how much I know about the female body, newsies want to know where I learned it- especially since there's no way in hell I've found out through personal experience. Newsies hear about my family. Newsies want to meet said family. Newsies do meet said family. Said family falls utterly in love with newsies. Hell breaks loose over my head. Entertaining hell to be sure, but still hell.  
  
The day I brought my friends over to visit my family was the day my family fell utterly in love with them. And vise versa. Every time I go home, everyone wants to know how everyone else is doing. My grandmother is concerned that Itey-who she believes to have impeccable manners and religious beliefs-will be corrupted by 'those heathen' we live with. My mother is besotted with Jack and Pie-who both complimented her cooking, and Marjan has decided we are all in desperate need of mothering and she's the one to give us that(disturbing.). Irene won't shut up about how she's going to maim Kid Blink next time she sees him(even though its obvious she fancies him), Gyselle won't shut up about if she wonders if Mush, Skittery, Jake and Snoddy still fight over her(they do) and Helga won't shut up about how I have to bring David and Specs back sometime so she can finish discussing books and schools and such with her(I won't. She can have David, but Specs is MINE). I'm still trying to figure out a way to inform Race and Bumlets they have 2 new minions, then kill them for teaching the twins how to make firecrackers. Crutchy is still worried sick over how quiet Marta is, and whether she is doing alright(I told him she's like that all the time, but they hit it off rather well, so he completely ignores me and continues to worry). And last time I was at the house, Kitty almost burst into tears when I told her it would be awhile before Snitch and Snipeshooter could come back to play with her.  
  
It drives me insane how much they like each other. But in a way, it's the best thing that's ever happened. I was so afraid my two families would hate each other, but they don't. They worship each other(in a really scary way, to be sure, but still), so instead of two separate families, I've got one incredibly big, loving, multi-everything family. That's one of the best things about being a newsies, you know? You never really think about loosing your blood family, or where they are, or who anyone else is by birth, because no one cares. We are one massive family within ourselves. Not related by blood or bone, but we do consider each other family. And that's what's really matters, right? Right.  
  
My name is Alexander Van Helsing. This is why I am the way I am. How about you?  
  
~!~!~!~!~ [1] 5th Element, anyone? 


	6. Swifty

Klover-Sounds like your family? Oh you poor dear.But you've lived so far, so I guess it can't be too bad. Glad you liked, thanks! Chicago-Sorry I took so long! Glad you liked, even if you thought his family was freaky(trust me, I do too!). Good sleep! Asp-Fifth Element IS awesome. Spiffy. Oo. I like that word. Lovely. Thanks! Gothic Author-who I want to call Gothy, may I? Please? Yay, glad you like it when Dutchykins is happy. Makes me happy too.  
  
Written from Swifty(weeeelll, Kevin Steas) B-Day. Happy birthday, darlin'!  
  
~!!~!!~!!~  
  
Me and my mother-We were always running. I don't really know why.  
  
Okay, screw that. Erase, back up, change, whatever.  
  
Me and my mother-We were always running. I do know why, though.  
  
First we were running from my dads family-high society men don't exactly appreciate it when their sons knock up Chinese immigrants who have no intention of marrying the afore mentioned son. Then were running from my dad-when his family gave up the chase, he took over. Then we were running from the detectives and snoops who he sent in his place once he got tired of tracking down us himself. Then we were running from the cops- prostitution is still illegal, no matter where you go. And let's face it- there was no way my mother was going to be able to marry any one else-not with being constantly on the run and having a kid and all.  
  
Then it was just me running. I was running from the street corners where Mother worked, just so I wouldn't have to see her slumming up with rats against alley way walls.  
  
So, I would run. I was only like, what? 6, 8, something like that at the time, so I couldn't run far, but Lord Almighty, I was fast. Still am. But back then I had little kid energy to boot. I used to start timing myself. I'd leave mother at 7:30, and, if I was on a sugar high and didn't stop to wait for traffic, I could run the 8 city blocks to our apartment in the Red Light District at 7:36 by the kitchen clock.  
  
When I'm running, I'm free. Tall dark streak of light-that's who I am. I feel all powerful-down right godlike, in fact. Nothing can touch me; no one can get to me, no matter what. I'm flying above the ground. I'm running faster then any one could think possible, and I Am Free.  
  
That's when I'm running and in a good mood. Running is also a form of therapy, I guess. I am beyond fast when I'm running and I'm sad or angry or just plain old scared shitless. The fastest I've ever run was when I was 9- when I won the all-city-unofficial Newsboys race. Okay, seeing as you know my current occupation and all that junk, what happened may appear kinda obvious. Ehh! Wrong.  
  
See, the day-no, week-no, MONTH had been, so to speak, A Royal Hell. Part of the whole slut thing involves drinking of snorking whatever your client offers, and I guess Mother inhaled some pretty serious shit, because when she came back in the morning, she was legally married to Mr. Slimeball himself. Okay, I'm being unfair. Arthur was a nice guy. He just, you know, had a temper and required a blow job from both Mother AND me whenever he felt we needed to be 'forgiven'. My real father had been an interrogation lawyer, so I guess I had been naturally bred to have a pretty strong temper- one which I can keep in check 95% of the time, but after a month of beatings and cocksucking I Was Pissed. So when Arthur hit me, I took off.  
  
I just started running. Out of our apartment complex, down the street, and away-away, away, AWAY! I couldn't see where I was going through the haze of red and tears, I just knew I was moving fast, almost too fast, and I didn't care. I ran until the air in my lungs felt like fire and my legs began to slip and slide. That's another thing, when I'm running, I never trip. Never. The sliding was beginning to scare me, so I pulled to a stop, along with some other boys. People were all around us, screaming and cheering, and it scared me. The crack of the gun I heard a few seconds later scared me more. So I took off again, putting everything I had into running away from the gun, and whoever was behind it. The crowd grew silent as I ran, easily passing all of the boys as I sped away down the street. Suddenly an arm reached out and grabbed me. I screamed, but it wasn't Arthur, it was a boy with masses of curly hair and a crutch.  
  
"Whoa, kid, slow down. The race is over, you can stop now." I finally allowed myself a breath, a confused look about, only to realize I had somehow managed to wind up down by the Brooklyn docks and there were about 200 other boys charging towards us. One stepped out of the crowd.  
  
"What's your name, kid? Where you from?" He asked, angry. I prepared to take off again. What if he was part of Arthur's circle? I don't want to go back.  
  
The boy with the crutch answered for me, "He's with us, Spot. No issue."  
  
The second boy snorted, "Are you telling me Manhattan beat out Brooklyn in THIS race?"  
  
Crutch-boy nodded with a grin shot at a group of boys in the crowd that had gathered, "Yep. His name is-" he faltered, but recovered quickly with a smirk, "Swifty. And he's with us."  
  
"Rumors about a secret weapon were true, Conlon! Hand over that prize!" A boy yelled from the crowd, offering me a grin.  
  
Conlon spat on the pavement, "My ass I will. There's nothing between those fucking enormous ears of yours, Crutchy, if you think I'll believe that load of bullcrap."  
  
The anger swelled within me again. I hate it when people pull shit like that. I stepped forward, glaring at the Conlon boy, "My name is Swifty Lee and I'm from Manhattan. Hand over that prize."  
  
A loud cry rallied forth from the crowd. Apparently no one had ever really stood up to 'Spot' before. The Manhattan boys grabbed me and dragged me off to a alley near by to give me half of the prize money. They said that they were Newsies, this was an annual contest held by Brooklyn, who they had never beaten, until today. They said thanks, but I better be getting home now, but if I ever wanted to stop by, I was welcome to.  
  
I stood there, with more money then I had ever seen in my hand, thinking over my options. I could keep running-hoping something like this would happen again.  
  
Scratch that-it was unlikely as all get out.  
  
I could go home-maybe Arthur would lay off if I offered him money.  
  
Scratch that-he'd just say I'd stolen it.  
  
Or, I could join this rag-tag group of boys who had treated me like a friend for the first time in my life-who had given me the money that was sort of theirs to boot.  
  
Sounded good to me.  
  
That day, I ran 3 more races, and won every won. I went home with my new friends, who split all the money half way with me, got me a job and a place to stay, gave me a name and welcomed me in as one of their own. And even better then when I was running, I Was Free. Really free.  
  
My name is Louie Chen. This is why I am the way I am. How about you?  
  
~!!~!!~!!~ Sorry about Swifty's attitude. I like him a bit of a smartass-he's always smirking in all those pictures and stuff.  
  
Nice happy written things feed my soul. Fanfics, emails, reviews. Especially reviews. Hinthint. 


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